


many were, few remain

by museme87



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Assume five year gap happened, Cousin Incest, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is King in the North, Jon doesn't know he's a Targ yet, Post - A Dance With Dragons, R plus L equals J, Starkcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-10-06 22:09:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10345569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/museme87
Summary: Jon has no idea how to be a brother to a woman grown.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To make this work, assume that GRRM's original five-year gap happened. How you choose to fill that time and how the characters came to this particular moment is totally up to you. Also I think there's enough flexibility to read this as a very close brother/sister gen fic, but I intend there to be overtones of Jon/Arya. This takes place prior to an R + L = J reveal in this 'verse.

The dull throbbing between his eyes reminds Jon that he has once again spent too long pouring over letters and hearing council. Had he any sense, he would have sought out bed hours ago. Jon knows little and less of kingship, but he tries to follow his father’s example as best he can. As he is learning, there is a great deal more to kingship than lordship, and that he must become a king amidst a war with both men and the undead only makes the burden harder to bear. Some nights he does not bother with sleep. He might have done so again tonight, but Val had reminded him that a kneeler-king was worth even less half-starved for sleep. Though insolent, Jon knew she had the truth of it.

As if his responsibility truly weighs on him, Jon is slow returning to his room. Ghost trots ahead of him, looking back every so often as if to punctuate Jon’s lazy pace. Three moon turns have come and gone—long enough for Jon to have become accustomed to his former home once again—yet the halls and corridors are pregnant with memories. When they had moved south from Castle Black, Jon had chosen to stay in his old room, which had largely gone untouched by the fires that razed Winterfell. He did not think he was a strong enough man to share the lord’s chambers with the ghosts of his father and Catelyn Stark. Better more familiar ghosts than those.

Ahead, Ghost paws at the door to his room, the door creaking open at his touch. Jon’s brow furrows; the door should not be open. Yet, Ghost slips in all the same, and Jon reaches for Longclaw, his steps becoming softer and more careful. 

Jon eases into his room, his eyes assailed by more candle and fire light than he expects. Within the first fortnight at Winterfell, he had ordered the servants not to attend to his room late into the night. To keep the fire blazing and candles burning was a poor use of dwindling resources when he was occupied elsewhere in the castle. And so, at the sight of it now, he grips his sword tighter.

Though he expects he has company, Jon startles upon seeing someone curled before the fire rather than tucked tight in the shadows of his chamber. When he finds that Ghost is not alone, but sniffing at the snout of his wild, gray sister, his heart stops its frantic beating. Eyes closing, Jon breathes deeply in relief and sets Longclaw aside. 

_Arya._

Long ago he might have anticipated her slipping into his room. His little sister had been a master sneak, seeking him out when Winterfell fell silent in the night. Jon cannot count the times he had caught her lying on his rugs or wound tightly in furs at the foot of his bed in their childhood, wild thing that she was. And when she’d fought with Sansa or had received a particularly harsh scolding from her lady mother, sometimes Arya had woken him in the night and had forced her way into his bed like a small, wounded pup desperate for kindness. 

Amongst all the memories brought forth since his arrival home, this is the first to warm him. Arya had only returned to him a few days ago. In the dark of night he had been woken and brought to the gatehouse where a heavily cloaked woman had been held. Years had passed and dealt damage to them both, but when she lowered her hood, Jon saw the North in her, saw _himself_ in her. That Nymeria had been close by only reaffirmed what he already knew in his very bones. 

_Little sister._

He still struggles to reconcile his little sister with the grown woman asleep on his rug. She is so very _Arya_ like this—her snores soft, her hands balled into fists, her hair a dark muss tangled about her face. But this Arya has _seen_ things— _lived_ things—that have made her half a stranger to him. While he has only had her story in bits and pieces, Jon has caught glimpses of what the world has done to her. Perhaps it makes him a weak man, but Jon is uncertain if he can ever bear to hear the whole truth of it. 

Perhaps saddled with this guilt, Jon kneels next to Arya and lightly shakes her. She awakes with a start, gasping and ready to strike at him before she recognizes who he is. Her guard drops, their gray eyes meeting. Jon witnesses the sharp clarity there and for a second sees the unsettled, stricken look about them. Once-waking-nightmares must plague her sleep as they do his own, the wounds on his chest itching as if to remind him. 

As she sits up, Jon tries to push his own nightmares from his mind. His gloved hand finds its way to her hair, the braids at her temples tight, the braids upon her crown looser, and both giving way to a mess of dark hair falling down her back. Jon cups the back of her neck, his thumb running across her jaw, and plants a light kiss upon her head.

“You used to be better at finding furs for your make-shift dens, little sister.” 

He stretches to pull a fur from a nearby chair and drapes it across Arya’s shoulders. She fists it, drawing it closer to her to preserve some warmth. Jon sees the weariness on her face, the dark bruising beneath her eyes. 

Since arriving at Winterfell, Arya has fought sleep and refused dreamwine. Jon does not want to press her, but seeing her like this makes his heart ache. He feels the need to protect her as he once had, yet Jon is wise enough now to know that his little sister does not need his protection, no more than she ever truly had. 

“I thought it would be a comfort. I used to dream of being home,” Arya says, her voice hoarse for cold and want of sleep. 

“There is no returning,” he answers.

Though they are in the very room he grew up in, Jon knows that he and Arya have experienced too much to ever go back to the Winterfell of their childhood. War has ravaged them both, their lives now so far removed from the children who stole away to run half-wild in the Godswood. _Stick ‘em with the pointy end_ , a bastard brother told a sister once. Jon had never meant for her to truly have need of his lesson.

Arya worries her lip, pulling the furs about her tighter still as if they might swallow her up if she tries. 

“It’s the Sept of Baelor that haunts me. Isn’t it strange? I didn’t see what they did to Father. Not in truth. But now it comes to life in my dreams as if it had happened before me.” 

Jon hardly knows what to say. Nothing will be a comfort to her, and a thousand wishes for it to have gone another way makes little difference in the world. He considers all the wise men he has known in his life—his father, Lord Commander Mormont, Maester Aemon—and what they might have said or done in such a moment as this. However, their answers are silence, and he stands helpless before her. Jon can only think of what he would have done once long ago before they had both become so burdened. 

Jon squeezes her shoulder lightly. “Come.” 

She considers him for a moment before offering her hand to help her up. Arya is still light as a feather, a wisp of a girl who has transformed into a woman whose body he cannot quite reconcile with the Arya he once knew. She is half a head shorter than him, but where once she had knobby knees and sharp elbows, Arya now has a more womanly look about her. He thinks she might even be a northern beauty underneath the dirt and knots, like people said of their aunt Lyanna. 

Yet some things had not changed. Arya still looks up at him with big, gray eyes; she does so now. Jon could never say no to them before, and he thinks time has not made him a harder man when it comes to Arya. 

When she rises, Jon tugs her in the direction of his bed. They both pause before it, a man and woman grown before a bed made for one. A flicker of doubt crosses Jon’s mind; they are too old for this, too much time has passed, too many unshared experiences have shaped them into familiar strangers. His thoughts weigh heavy on his heart, but his heart still beats with the desire to keep her near. 

Before he can convince himself otherwise, Jon pushes Arya lightly onto the feather bed. It is not a gentle touch, but a playful one. He cannot count the times Arya once attacked his legs or jumped on his back in joyful fights until he would have her in a fit of laughter from tickles. With his eyes, he begs her to remember those times and see his actions in light of them. 

“Stay with me.” 

Judging from the easy look on her face, Jon thinks he’s won this battle. But then there is a flicker of something—doubt or outrage, he cannot say—and her brow pulls tight. 

“I’m not a child.” 

He cannot find the words to express how apparent that is to him. Jon has seen her in the training yard, practicing in the Braavosi style. And he has seen the way that men look at her as she goes about her business. One look of her eyes tells him how much she has seen. _No, you are no child_ , he thinks, _but I don’t know how to be a brother to a woman grown_. 

Jon raises his hands in submission. “I ask you to stay for my sake, not yours.” 

There is much truth to that, more than Arya can ever know. He feels weak before her. Once she had looked up to him for everything, and he felt half a hero in her eyes. Now he no longer knows how to come to her aid. Jon is tempted to break down, to beg her to stay because he does not to know what to do, but he cannot bear to stand here so damnably helpless. He thinks to beg her to allow him to comfort her as he once had as a boy tonight, and he will do better, try harder, learn more on the morrow. 

When Arya does not move, does not answer, Jon knows she remains unconvinced. When she was a child and he had need to speak with her, Jon would corner her so that she might sit and listen. But like as not, Arya would dart off the moment his guard was down. He searches for that wild look in her now, and when he does not clearly see it, he eases down on the bed next to her, carefully so as not to spook her. 

Her gray eyes study him, pierce him as if to call his truth a lie. Yet that is enough for her—this silent accusation—and Arya moves further onto the bed and curls up. After pulling the thick furs upon her, Arya pulls back a corner, giving him permission to lie down next to her. When Jon settles in, he realizes that the bed hardly accommodates them anymore. 

“It seems we’ve outgrown this,” he says, his voice quieter now that he is inches from her face. 

“The Old Gods make light of us,” Arya says. “The bed no longer suits us when there is no one stopping us from sharing it.” 

“I can sleep elsewhere or on the floor. I will not kick you out.” 

Her eyes shine wickedly. “You could not if you tried, Jon.” 

“I suspect you have the truth of it,” he concedes, smiling. 

“I won’t ask you to leave. You are a king.” She raises her palm to cup his cheek. “And a comfort.” 

He closes his eyes at her touch, relishing the feel of her skin on his. All these long years he had never expected to see Arya again, let alone know the touch of her hand. They were not a ladies’ hands, not soft. Yet he thought he might turn and kiss her fingers all the same. Arya was here, was his once more, for all anyone could ever stake claim to someone like Arya. 

Reaching out to her, Jon runs his fingers, no longer gloved, across her brow. His hands find the back of her neck, catching in her mess of hair. He smooths his thumb over her ear and then moves to softly massage her temple.

Her eyes close, and Arya sighs, her hand moving to rest upon the back of his. She squeezes him as if to anchor herself to the here and now. _I’m here, little sister. And nothing short of the seven hells rising up will part us._ The light of the fire dances upon her cheek, her long face. She opens her eyes and searches for his. Their gray eyes meet, and Jon sees the wild North in hers. He wonders briefly what she might see in him.

Arya withdraws her hand and moves closer to him, ducking her head beneath his chin and curling up against his chest without word. Jon pulls the furs closer, knowing that the long night will threaten to chill them both to the bone as the fire wanes. He does not think he will sleep this night, but Jon knows that the feel of Arya against him, with her deep breaths and snores, will bring him peace.


	2. The Sleeping Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wakes to his sister in his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What was a one-shot became a two-shot I suppose! Direct sequel to part one taking place the morning after.

Her mouth is on his hungrily, and Jon briefly wonders if all women kiss like this or if it’s just because Ygritte is a wilding kissed by fire. She moves him easily through the hot pools of the cave, guiding him where she wants with her hips against his own. Her hands greedily roam over his skin, her touches sending shivers all over him. Not shivers from the cold, but something more. Something Jon can’t put a name to just yet, what with her teeth at his lips and her hands tugging at his own to cup her breasts. Ygritte is dizzying. Having her on him like this makes him half-forget the vows he swore. He still feels shame, but it’s nothing more than a distant echo, growing fainter as his aching becomes more maddening.

Controlled by his yearning, he slips his hands upon her waist and flips her around so that her stomach is pressed against the edge of the pool and her back against his front. Jon reaches for her hair, the curls tangling in his fingers as he moves them aside to press hard kisses on her neck and shoulders. Ygritte sighs sweetly, and his hips roll against her backside of their own accord.

His want builds, and he pushes any lingering thoughts of broken vows from his mind with the sound of Ygritte’s contented hum. Shivers course through him again, but this time they are different. They are less the type to seize his wits from lust and more… _familiar_.

Cool.

No.

_Cold_.

He hears himself whine, once clearly, as Ygritte unwinds herself from him, and once more muffled. His limbs feel suddenly heavy, and the cave seems nothing more than smoke, escaping his grasp when he reaches out for it.

A whine of displeasure escapes his lips, and Jon thinks that the cave may have only been a dream. But he’s uncertain, just crossing the line between dreaming and waking. Only one thought flutters across his mind in this state.

_Cold_.

His feet. His nose. His ears.

Jon might even stir to tend to his bedroll if it weren’t for the bundle of heat along his front.

_Ygritte._

Groggy, he dips his head just so to try to capture some of the warmth beneath the furs. Then there’s a tickle at his nose. Hair, smelling of sweat and earth.

_Kissed by fire_.

Jon slips his hand across her middle to pull her heat closer to him. He buries his nose in her hair and slips his foot between hers in a sweet tangle of limbs. When she pushes lightly against him, Jon smiles softly and kisses her behind the ear. She runs her hand along his, their fingers twinning together lazily. He hears her sleepy sigh and groan.

And then, “Jon.”

While _she_ sounds hardly awake, Jon’s heart suddenly begins beating wildly. The smile slips from his lips and his brow pulls in confusion.

This woman does not sound like Ygritte, though she stirs his blood like Ygritte once had. Jon opens his eyes to a mess of dark hair and in a panic tries to recall if he had broken his vows once more.

Then his surroundings start to seep into his mind.

Winterfell. His chambers. His bed.

His _sister_.  

Jon freezes. He remembers the night before, asking her to stay with him as a comfort to them both. She’d fallen asleep first, and much to his surprise he followed soon after.

She stirs in his arms once more, this time turning so that they face one another. Arya does not open her eyes; she is half asleep, he thinks. He tries to put some distance between them, but the moment he moves and creates a pocket of cool air between them, Arya groans.

“It’s cold.”

She tugs him closer, and Jon feels helpless.

His eyes shut tightly. With a deep breath, Jon wills his body to stop reacting as any grown man’s might. It had been the dream, of course. Sharing a bed had stirred old memories. In his dream, he could not have known who he’d truly been with. No more than Arya could know what is happening now. They’d shared a bed as children. They’d lain just like this, nestled together tightly for warmth. Last night he’d not thought his body would betray him like this.

Jon opens his eyes and allows his gaze to fall on Arya, trying to assess how he might extract himself from her arms without waking her. She need not wake up to his embarrassment. Yet as he checks to see that she’s not woken, his breath catches for a moment. His heart beats fitfully, recalling the sight of Arya as such a little thing and baring witness to the women she’s become.

He’d always thought she’d been a pretty little thing underneath the dirt. Jon can’t quite stop himself from reaching out to cup her cheek, but the touch is one that’s half soft caress and half flex of his burned hand. For all that she may have been a pretty, little girl, she’s grown into a great beauty.

The thought that he can see it in her now and that his heart pangs violently with the thought frightens him beyond measure. Shame grips him, causing his cheeks to flush and stomach to flip. Yes, it had been years since they’d last seen one another, but that’s a poor man’s excuse given the way his body aches. He should take pride in having such a lovely sister, not yearn to reach out for her. For all that he might tell himself that dreams mean nothing, Jon, to his horror, knows deep within him that there is truth in it, sincere desire for the body against his own and the noise his touch elicited.

Unable to bear being so close to her, Jon pulls away. Arya grunts in her sleep, and Jon shifts to move his pillow to replace his body. It is only when she sighs, seemingly content, that Jon tries to ease his legs from her own. However, a soft cough grabs his attention before he can extract himself.

Jon quickly looks up, eyes wide with fear. Tormund stands in the doorway, perhaps has for some time now. In his moment of horror, Jon does not think he would have heard the door opening. He swallows hard, his eyes shutting tightly as he silently curses. As his eyes find Tormund’s, Jon knows what the man must think of this; it’s writ in his cautious gaze, his eyes heavy with uncertainty and maybe disgust.

When Tormund motions to him that they’ll speak outside his chambers, Jon is thankful. Clumsily, he rises from the bed with a quick glance backwards to assure himself that Arya still sleeps. He then dresses, securing Longclaw around his waist as he walks to the door. Just as he’s about to open it, he hears Ghost rising from where he and Nymeria have slept curled up together through the night. Jon raises his hand to stop him and gestures towards the bed.

“Keep her warm, boy. I’ll be back soon.”

When he steps outside, Tormund is there waiting as promised. His friend says nothing to him as they walk side-by-side down the corridor from his room. It unnerves him—each passing moment of silence. Jon thinks he might lose whatever is left in his stomach of dinner. Certainly he might say something if he _could_ , if his tongue did not feel so heavy. Not that he has the words. What might he possibly say to ease Tormund’s mind? The truth? That yes, he had shared a bed with his little sister long after it was considered proper, but it was not like Tormund thought? But some part of Jon knows that that’s only a half-truth now. That’s how it had begun, of course. But Arya had stirred him, and Jon can’t quite forget how she sounded when he pressed his hardness against her bottom. Her sigh of happiness, low and sleep-worn. He would make her make that noise again if he could, so sweet it was. And that thought lingers with him, its sickness twisting and coiling in his belly with shameful want.

But Tormund need not know that. _No one_ can know that. And in the silence between them, Tormund likely suspects it of him. Jon parts his lips to explain himself when Tormund stops him with a heavy hand on the shoulder.

“What I saw…”

“My sister has been through much, my friend,” he says, wondering if Tormund can hear the weakness in his voice. “She does not sleep well and sought out her brother’s company.”

“Might be as you say.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, as if Tormund might find the truth somewhere on Jon’s face. Not the truth that _was_ , but the truth that Jon has so recently discovered. He does what he can to suppress the memories of his waking, the twisted-yearning to return to Arya now so that he might feel her warmth against him. Though he is unconvinced that he’s succeeded, a slight nod of the head tells Jon that Tormund is momentarily satisfied with that answer. It eases the tension in his chest, but does little to the serpents in his belly.

“Come. I want to see these new recruits you’ve brought me,” Tormund says, seemingly happy to leave this behind them.

Yet, that all changes in a moment. Jon barely gets two steps ahead before Tormund stops him again.

“I know you Southroners think o’ us as savages, but, even among the free folk, brothers don’t lie with sisters, Jon Snow. We won’t follow no sister-fuckers, no matter what we might be runnin’ from. You best tread carefully around that pretty little sister of yours or the free folk might get the wrong ideas.”

Tormund says no more and walks ahead, leaving Jon standing in the middle of the corridor. His face feels hot and prickly and numb all at once. His lungs burn for air, as if it’d been knocked from him by an enemy. The serpents in his belly disappear, replaced by a bruising, blossoming pain. So close is he to losing his dinner that he steadies himself against the nearby wall. He brings ruined fingers to his mouth as if it might stave off the bile, yet that had been his fatal move.

His fingers smelled so sweetly of her hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This is my first stab at Jon/Arya, so I hope I captured them well enough. I love to play around with GRRM's initial plans for these two, which is what inspired this fic in the first place. That, and amazing fics in this corner of fandom. Comments are love, and you can find me over on tumblr with the same handle! Comments are warmly welcome.


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